The Man From the River
by SenseandCommon
Summary: The story of a strange, torn man found at the edge of the municipal water supply and how he copes with his rebuilding the life he's forgotten.
1. Prequel: Kyle Grant

**Hello, and welcome to a lovely edition of "Bront****ë actually writes what she says she'll write." Now, this is just the prequel, so don't judge it too harshly. In fact, go ahead and start on the next chapter (once it's uploaded.) **

**I DO NOT OWN SUPERNATURAL OR ANY OF ITS GLORIOUS CHARACTERS**

**.o0o.**

Kyle Grant awoke as if it was any other day. He put on his unwashed work clothes, ate some toast, and got into his rusted pick-up truck. He waved politely to the neighbors even though he knew nothing about them. Arriving at work, he pulled up next to a truck just like his in a line of trucks just like his. He walked inside to see a bunch of men in the same outfit as him bustling around despite the fact that they probably had nowhere they needed to be.

He lived what one Dean Winchester would call an "apple pie life".

But then something strange happened.

"Hey, Kurt?"

A man in a suit with gelled back hair barreled down at him, a false smile on his false face.

"Kyle," he corrected him.

"Yeah, Kevin, the levels are a little off down the river. Can you check it out? Make sure somebody didn't dump something in the water? Everyone else seems pretty busy."

And the man was gone, leaving Kyle alone. With a groan and meaningless curse, Kyle turned and walked out the door. There was nothing worse than checking the river. You had to check every station and make sure everything was normal. It always was.

And yet something seemed off as Kyle arrived at the second entrance to the main river. The lock to the gate appeared to have been rusted off of its chain, leaving the gate ajar.

"Ah, shit," Kyle breathed. Some kids probably got in and were swimming around. Don't they realize that people drink this stuff?

Kyle looked down the river and saw absolutely no one, so he decided to check one station down. Maybe the current dragged them down there.

An eerie silence filled the air at the third station. Despite the rural setting, not even a bird could be heard. Even the rushing, churning river seemed still.

And something was lying off the shore.

"Damn it."

A soggy black suit jacket was caught on the very edge of the shore, repeatedly tugged by the moving water. Whoever these kids were they were stripping, and, assuming the jacket belonged to a male, that wasn't something Kyle wanted to see.

"Hello?" Kyle called out, not really wanting to hear anyone.

"I'm sorry."

Kyle leapt into the air, his heart suddenly racing at an unimaginable rate. He snapped his head in the direction of the noise, fighting the urge to run the opposite way.

"I'm sorry."

A man was lying along the bank, his face was dark with muck and blood. Despite Kyle's better judgment, he ran to help the man.

"I'm sorry."

The man muttered through blackened teeth. As he approached him, Kyle was hesitant to touch the disgusting man. A strange black liquid covered every inch of the man, even dyeing his eyes. Kyle'd see enough epidemic movies to know that making contact with men like this was how it always started.

His hand was on his phone before his mind had the time to process the action, and his fingers were dialing 9-1-1 before he had time to figure out what to say.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"I, I don't know. A, a man washed up on shore and he's covered in…" Kyle's voice trailed off as nausea consumed him. He ran to the nearby bush to vomit.

"Covered in what, sir?" The woman replied sweetly, unaware of the fear Kyle felt.

"In a black goo." Kyle said sickly, inflecting as if it was a question.

Was it a question?

"Is he breathing?" the woman interrupted his thoughts.

"Yes, he keeps saying he's sorry." Kyle said, his hands shaking almost too hard to hold the phone.

Kyle continued to talk to the woman, telling her his location. Eventually, an ambulance and a few cop cars showed up, covering him with a thick, stiff blanket.

They asked him questions about the man. They asked him questions about himself. But all he could think about was that man, the man that had already been driven off in a county ambulance.


	2. Prequel: St Basil Memorial Hospital

**I do not own Supernatural or any of its lovely people. I wish I did.**

**Also, while I have your attention I would like to share my inspiration. This post (****.com/post/17415790206/patient-11-name-unknown-age-approximately-34) by octopirecipes inspired this fic. **

**.o0o.**

Dr. Claudia Lafleur sees over 100,000 patients a year. Some of them die; some of them walk out of the front door as if nothing bad ever been wrong with them.

At 4:40 pm on a rather sunny Thursday, a semi-conscious man was wheeled into the emergency room at St. Basil Memorial Hospital. He was seen by two different nurses, both of whom were appalled by the unknown substance that appeared to completely coat his torn, limp body. A swab of the substance was taken, but it never made it to the testing center. Fearful of a foreign and potentially contagious disease, he was moved to a separate wing of the hospital.

A wing run by Dr. Claudia Lafleur.

She, like the nurses, could not recognize the substance. However, after a few seconds of reasoning, she decided that the best plan was to wash it off. Once rinsed, he was returned to his specialized room where a few nurses documented his extensive injuries.

John Doe, as he was officially called, seemed as if he had been in a series of car accidents, none of his injuries correlating with a fathomable timeline. His right forearm appeared obviously broken, the bone stretching his pale skin. Abrasions covered his entire body, some exposing entire patches of underlying flesh. Bruises also coated his body, creating a blotchy and horrific aesthetic. Blood was still trickling out of his nose and left ear. Dr. Lafleur almost didn't know where to start.

"Give him an anesthetic," she said to an unfamiliar medical student who stood terrified in the corner of the room. The student hurried to give the man an IV, stumbling across the room.

Just as the needle was a few inches away from John Doe, he erupted. Flinging his arms and legs in a sort of frenzy.

"I've got to find them!" the man shouted, throwing his broken body from the bed. He collapsed, but was quickly able to drag himself into the corner of the room.

Medical personnel leapt to secure the man, grasping him firmly while still attempting to avoid his open wounds. The man fought back valiantly until suddenly he went completely limp.

"He's going into shock!" Claudia shouted, rushing to help the personnel lift him onto the cot. Nurses quickly gave the man oxygen.

After hours of tests and surgery, John Doe was returned to his room.

"We'll leave somebody in here, in case he has another one of his outbreaks." A nurse informed Dr. Lafleur.

"No, I'll do it," she responded, happy for some time to read the latest "modern classic".

Whenever she recounts the story, she leaves out the bit about how she fell asleep. The way she tells it, the man dove in front of her. Truthfully, she awoke after painstaking hours of watching the man to find an angelic form towering over her.

"Stop!" she attempted to shout, but the only word came out as a mere whimper.

The man complied, lowering his hand to his side.

"I'm sorry."

"That, that's ok." she stuttered.

"No." He said, swaying back and forth.

"You should sit."

Dr. Lafleur stood slowly so as not to alarm the man. He took a step back, but did not return to his cot.

"No." he repeated. "I must return to them. I am the only one who will help them. I'm the only one who can."

"I'm sure they can wait until you recover."

"I shouldn't have to recover. I am an angel of the lord."

Claudia was well versed on dealing with fearful or confused patients, but mental conditions were a completely different field.

"I think it's best if you sat."

The man cocked his head to the side, as if to consider her proposal. He turned to walk towards the bed, but quickly gave way, hitting the floor unconscious.

John Doe was moved to a more secure ward where he was observed by multiple psychiatrists. He almost always reacted violently when caught off guard or spoken to too suddenly. He would shout endless apologies, although he couldn't remember who they were to when later questioned. He appeared to have severe memory loss, not even able to remember referring to himself as an angel.

Nothing developed from the black substance, although the man reacted in a terrified manor whenever it was mentioned in his general vicinity. For a time he had a dramatic fear of the color, flinching at a doctor who happened to walk past his room in deep black dress pants.

The psychiatrists theorized that John Doe had paranoid schizophrenia due to his numerous irrational fears and generally strange behavior. During his seventh day at the hospital, an orderly caught him talking to no one, referring to a man named "Jimmy", although he denied it immediately.

After two weeks of waiting and hoping, the man was moved to a nearby mental institution due to his unchanging symptoms and lack of a known medical history or family. He was kept for a few days with other violent patients, but was later moved to a more accommodating ward.


	3. Chapter One: Blood Seal

**I do not own Supernatural… If anyone wants to change that, be my guest.**

**.o0o.**

The man walked aimlessly down the naturally lit hallway led by two orderlies and one of the institution's many psychiatrists. One of the orderlies was a chunky woman whose clothing seemed so tight that it was about to slice her in half. The other was a tall, looming man with hands the size of symbols. Despite his dark, generally frightening appearance, he seemed much more appealing to the man, almost as if he reminded him of someone, but like everything else the man couldn't remember who.

The psychiatrist was a petite woman whose hands flew across her clipboard, writing at unnatural speeds. Suddenly, she stopped before a sterile white door with a thick black "11" printed on it and turned towards the man.

"This will be your room until you're able to leave us." She said, a false smile consuming her painted face.

The tall orderly quickly unlocked the door and held it open, motioning for the man to go inside.

"Until you remember your name or we find out more about who you are, we're going to call you John or Mr. Doe, is that ok?" The woman psychiatrist asked.

"Yes." The man, John Doe, responded flatly, looking around his room.

It was a small pale blue room with a single window that looked out onto the hospital's courtyard. A rather large whiteboard with giant magnets larger than his clenched fist took up one of the walls. A small light wood end table with three drawers sat next to a plushy cot with deep cobalt sheets.

"Which do you prefer? John or Mr. Doe?" the psychiatrist interjected, never looking up from her clipboard and still carving away at the packet that lay on top of it.

The man looked back at her with an inquisitive look. For some reason, one name stood out more than the other.

"John. I like the name John."

He sat on the bed and stared at the white board.

"What is that for?" He said, motioning at the board.

"Oh, her at Herman Mental Institution, we encourage our patients to express themselves through art. We have these so you can display them and liven up the room." Her voice sounded like a cheap advertisement.

"We'll leave you here to get situated."

They left, leaving the door open. The woman orderly sat at the end of the hall, pulling out an equally chunky book.

"You're allowed to wander around, but the only places you can go during free time are your room and the commons."

And the man, John, was left by himself.

"Hey. You."

A voice came out of nowhere, causing the man to flinch.

"I didn't mean to startle you, what, are you a basket case?" The voice sneered again, yet to reveal itself.

"Where—" John started.

"Over here."

John turned to the nearest doorway to see a pale, young, bald man. A skull and crossbones print bathrobe draped on his skeletal frame. Deep circles surrounded his pale grey eyes.

"So, what're you in for?" he asked, his voice cracking as his bugling Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"I can't remember." John replied honestly.

"You have a pretty deep scar on your face. That have anything to do with it?" The man pried.

John ran his hand over his forehead. A thick line protruded from his temple. Like every other mark on his body, he and the doctors had no idea where it had come from.

"Oh," he said, "I have a lot of those."

"Ah, so you're totally nuts. Who'd you kill?" The man asked, still hiding behind his door.

"No one, I think."

The man in the doorway nodded as if he suddenly understood.

"Oh, so you _really_ don't remember. Those patients are always fun."

John and the man stared silently at each other for a minute, a suffocating and awkward silence filling the stale air.

"My name's Evan."

And the man disappeared into his room, shutting the door heavily. John did the same.

The room seemed so empty, so large, just like the mind that plagued John. He promptly laid down on the bed, letting it consume him. Just as he did at the other hospital, he squeezed his eyes shut and reviewed his little memories. The very few experiences shot through his mind before he had the chance to relish them. He couldn't even remember his first few days in treatment.

But then something strange, something abnormal happened. An alien sort of fear consumed him, like an itch that covered his entire body but that could never be scratched. He leapt from the bed and fell into the wall, the itch progressing to an uncontrollably burning sensation. He clawed at his arms drawing a trickle of blood. His hand, acting on its own accord, brought the blood to the wall, gliding across the blue surface.

When it stopped, John slid to the floor, blood still surging from his jagged wound. The seal was like nothing he had ever seen, yet it had literally poured out of him.

The doctors would have a field day with this.


	4. Chapter Two: Annabelle Conan

**I do not own Supernatural.**

**This is a shorter chapter because it didn't flow as well with the rest of what I wanted it to include. **

**And if anyone'd like to send me a review, even if it's negative, that'd be appreciated. It makes me want to work harder/update faster.**

**.o0o.**

An orderly eventually came to fetch him for group, promptly dropping their keys as they walked into the room. They called for help, a faint noise to the bleeding man who sat semi conscious on the tan linoleum floor of his room.

He was taken to the infirmary by the two people who responded. He passed by Evan, who stood in his doorway with the same casual look that he had worn during their earlier conversation.

A young, kind nurse met him there, shooing away the orderlies. The infirmary was a white room with white floors and white trim. John left a thin trickle of blood as he made his way to the cot.

After a few minutes of sitting and silence, the nurse interjected "So, why'd you do it?"

John stared at her for a while before responding. She didn't seem upset or angry like the doctors at the old hospital had. In fact, she seemed calm. "I don't know. It just came over me."

She walked towards him, moving unlike the other doctors. She moved like she actually wanted to go somewhere.

"Ah." She said, rubbing a patch of gauze over his jagged wound. "You have a lot of scars; do you get these feeling a lot?"

"No." He answered simply. "These scars aren't from me."

The woman nodded and continued to treat the wound, a true and comforting smile etched into her rather attractive face.

As she finished, she patted John kindly on the shoulder.

"You're good to go. Just shout into the hallway and an orderly will take you to your group session."

John was confused. Whenever he had acted out at the other place, there were consequences. Here, it seemed as if they just wanted him to move on.

"But I attacked myself. I painted some kind of satanic sign on the wall out of my own blood."

His voice sounded quiet and meek despite his generally strong stature, causing the nurse's smile to grow.

"We see stuff like that every day, John. How are we supposed to punish you? You're already in a mental institution. I suppose they'll add a few more questions in your individual therapy session, but that's it. And anyways, you're already different, better perhaps. You see that what you did was wrong or abnormal, now don't you?"

Her words were better than any of the strange medicines the doctors had been giving him. He was here to get better, to remember why he had landed in that hospital to begin with. He wasn't here to be punished.

"Thank you." He tried to return her pleasant smile. "What's your name?"

"Annabelle. Annabelle Conan."


	5. Chapter Three: Wings

**No Supernatural rights for me…. This is just a fanfiction…**

**Also, this chapter is the one that is mainly based off of ****octopirecipes' tumblr post (linked in an earlier chapter). **

**.o0o.**

John was led into the large group therapy room by the tall orderly that had accompanied him earlier. The noise that hit him upon entry was like nothing he could remember; which wasn't much. Despite his memory, at least ten people were all talking to no one in particular as they searched to find a suitable seat in small a ring of chairs. The psychiatrist with the clipboard sat among them, not really paying much attention to her surroundings. Evan was there too, already seated as far from the doctor as possible. He motioned nonchalantly for John to come sit with him.

The woman doctor cleared her throat, her synthetic smile still plastered on her face.

"Come sit." She said in a creepy, overly polite manor. Everyone complied, some clearly out of fear. John slid into the seat next to Evan, mirroring the group's jittery attitude.

"Now, to start I would like to introduce a new friend," her voice caught on the word friend, as if it were a sort of inside joke, "His name is John."

A chorus of halfhearted "Hi John"s filled the room. John looked around the room at each of the ten other patients that were present. None of them looked very happy, except for one man who looked severely overjoyed.

"May I start?" The overjoyed man exclaimed. "My name is Reece, for those of you who don't know."

The man leaned forward seductively. He had a huge, toothy smile that consumed the bottom of his face. His long, golden hair seemed to flow forward into his eyes, highlighting them in an unimaginable way.

"Yes, Reece," the psychiatrist said impatiently, "I was about to let everyone introduce themselves. How about we go around and say our names and one interesting thing about ourselves? My name is—"

"One thing about me?" Reece interjected. "Well, I don't know if it's 'group' appropriate. I could tell you later."

Reece winked at John, leaning back into his chair.

"That's enough Reece." The doctor said.

Each one of the other patients took their turns introducing themselves, none of them with such an eerie charisma as Reece. Those who stuck out to John were a strikingly thin red-headed woman with eyes even darker than the rings around them, a four-foot man with patches of skin missing from his forearms, a plump girl whose eyes never stopped moving, and an average man who spoke so calmly that he didn't appear to ever have had anything wrong with him at all.

"So what happened to him earlier?" Evan asked, motioning at John.

John froze. Did he want these strangers to know about his episode? He sunk into his chair suddenly fearful of his surroundings.

"Would you like to share, John, or no?" The psychiatrist looked up from her clipboard, a curious look on her harsh face.

John felt his head shake back and forth, never breaking eye contact with the floor.

"Ok, maybe tomorrow." She looked at her watch and smiled her first genuine smile. "We're out of time guys, off to today's art session!"

And she shuffled out of the room, leaving the patients alone with their fair share of orderlies.

The group was led into an adjacent room filled with hundreds of colors and textures. A long wooden table coated in glue and paint sat in the middle of the room accompanied by two equally long benches on each side.

"Come, come, sit, sit!" Annabelle, the nurse from the infirmary shuffled across the floor, beckoning the group in. Each patient scrambled to their preferred seat. John, caught up in the havoc, followed Evan like he was his dog. He smiled at Annabelle, and she returned one pleasantly.

"Today we're doing freelance art. Just grab whatever materials you want and create your mind's work!"

Again, the patients scrambled. Crayons, paints, construction papers, and glue attacked the table. John sat patiently, observing his surroundings. He couldn't recall ever using any of these materials, but he knew somewhere in his mind that they were meant for children. His eyes scanned the room for something to use, something that didn't raise that negative connotation in his mind.

His eyes landed on a small box on top of a tall, green shelf in the corner. A thin, black feather peeked out of the top of the box. It called to him in an unnatural way. Like when he clawed open his arm an uncontrollable force pulled him to his feet. He felt himself walking towards the feather, but his legs were not his own.

John watched his arm reach for the box. He watched his extended hand grasp it with such an intense desire that it surprised him even more than his earlier attack had. Inside were hundreds of these black feathers, packed tightly into the generally small box. He caressed them, their feel producing a blissful sentiment.

Quickly, he returned to his seat and spread them out onto the dirty table. His hands flew and stole a nearby glue and two ribbons from another patient. John worked faster than any other patient, causing a few to stop and stare at his progress. He glued each and every feather onto the ribbon in a sort of frenzy.

Finally, he fell back onto the bench and admired his work. His hands, working on their own accord, had crafted two beautiful wings. He pulled them onto his arms. Everyone in the room was watching him now, mouths hanging agape. Annabelle approached him slowly.

"That's beautiful, John," she whispered as if she were afraid to speak up, "What drove you to make those?"

"I don't know."


	6. Chapter Four: Jimmy

**Again, I do not own Supernatural or its characters. And if anyone world like to the exact reason why I portrayed SPOILER Jimmy as I did, just message me or write a review or something. You can find me on tumblr (my name being bronteloganwinchester). **

**.o0o.**

After close inspection, the doctors allowed John to take the glued and feathered creation back to his room due to his apparent emotional connection to it. Once he was alone in his room, he slipped the wings onto his back and stared into the semi reflective metal bedposts. His majestic appearance was the most beautiful thing he could imagine.

He gazed at his figure for quite some time. He liked this art activity. He liked the way it felt when his body remembered, despite the bandage on his arm from his earlier episode.

Before the doors to the rooms were shut for the night, John wandered into the hall and called for a nearby orderly.

"May I have something to draw with?" He asked innocently.

The orderly smiled at him and disappeared around the corner, returning with a pad of paper and a box of crayons.

"Thank you."

John returned to his room just as the other orderlies came around to shut the doors. The lights were soon shut off for the night, but the window allowed a thick stream of bright moonlight to illuminate the room. John sat below the window and spread the pad out on the floor.

He didn't know what to draw. Nothing came to mind. He didn't feel the surge of emotion as he had with the symbol or the wings. He just sat in the silent, dark room and stared quizzically at the pad, straining his mind to remember something.

Anything.

Suddenly, a terrifying sensation grasped John's core. It wasn't the feeling of remembrance, but something different. He was not alone in this room. Quickly, he threw his back against the wall. No one was there. Was it this place and the dark playing tricks on his mind?

No. This feeling was far too strong. Surely there was someone there, somewhere. He looked into the bedpost for comfort. His winged figure stared back at him, fuzzy from the bed's overuse.

Then it moved.

His reflection moved.

John froze, but the figure continued to move. It stared at him curiously.

"Can you see me?" the reflection asked quietly, almost as if he didn't expect a response.

"Yes." John squeaked. Was it possible that he had fallen asleep?

"Great, that means things will pick up again," the reflection said disappointedly. "And here I was getting used to sleep."

He rolled his eyes and lunged back against his blurry wall lazily. Then he shot up as if a person in the distance had screamed, startling John.

"You can't hear me though, can you?" a spark of desperate need ignited the reflection's voice.

"I can hear you." John stuttered, confused and still appropriately terrified.

"Obviously," he said as he rose his hand to his temple, "But you can't hear me in here, right?"

"No."

A goofy smile consumed the man's face. John had never seen such a pure and intense joy.

"Wow, that scar of yours is pretty big this time," he giggled like a child, "all the times you came down to my level, you could always hear me."

Now John was more than confused. Had he seen this reflection before, talked to him like this back when he had his memory? Or was it just a terrifyingly vivid dream or delusion brought on by the hospital's plethora of psychiatric medications?

"You look like you've just seen a ghost!" the reflection's laugh had evolved into a cackle.

"Hey John," he said again eyeing him up through his laugh induced tears, "What's with the wings? Trying to fly home?"

The reflection continued to mock him, even going as far as to tear some of his feathers out and toss them onto the beige floor. His laugh was like salt in John's open wounds. A rage welled up in his gut.

And then, like the other two times, his mind lost control.

"Be quiet, Jimmy!" John rose to his slippered feet, demanding and powerful.

"Whoa," his reflection, with his psyche had apparently named Jimmy, reacted.

_Damn it. _A voice, his voice, rang out in his head clear as a bell. _He's getting better. _


	7. Chapter Five: Men in Black

**I am constantly amazed that I'm even getting readers. Keep reviewing, I guess. It makes me feel much, much better about my writing abilities. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.**

**.o0o.**

Dr. Boyle, John's head psychiatrist, led the authorities down the dimly lit hall. The two men looked as if they could be twins, dressed in crisp black suits with their hair gelled back in exactly the same fashion. The only thing that set them apart from one another was the second man's overly deductive glares. Dr. Boyle found them unsettling, but continued on her way.

"Our John Doe was brought in about a month ago. The first day here he showed apparent self destructive behaviors, but hasn't attempted to attack anyone else. That night he suffered from a severe psychotic attack – I believe we sent you a copy of the tapes – and hasn't spoken much since. He just draws random pictures."

One of the cops nodded to show that he understood while the other simply continued down the hall.

Dr. Boyle opened the door to John Doe's room. The waxy smell of crayon and paint was overpowering, causing one of the men to sway despite his burly stature. The man was crouched on the floor, an array of papers and colors jumbled around him. He looked up innocently at the men then returned to his work.

"John, John there are some men here to ask you a few questions. You don't have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable," Dr. Boyle cooed.

"We'd like if we could ask these questions privately." The first man said menacingly.

Dr. Boyle fled the room without another word. The two men watched her go patiently, taking in their surroundings. Only a few finished pictures of a black car, a kite, and other unimportant objects were held onto the large whiteboard, the rest were only barely started and littered around the room. A large picture consisting of only a few sharp lines and a various shades of soft pink was situated carefully in the middle of the board, a focal point for the others.

"Sir," Started the first man while the other gazed at the pictures ominously, "What do you remember of your whereabouts leading up to your discovery at the river?"

John looked up at the man, his eyes watery from concentration.

"Nothing."

The man smirked.

"Then what inspired these?" He motioned at the completed drawings.

John looked back down at his work as if he hadn't noticed it before.

"It just comes over me."

One of the men nodded and wrote a few things down in his small leather pad. The other paced back and forth in front of the board.

"And the day when you drew on the wall with your blood. What compelled you to do that?"

John shut his eyes in pain, the memory of clawing at his arms consuming him.

"I don't know," he gasped.

"And finally, what do you know of the man you referred to as 'Jimmy'?"

A more obvious panic appeared on John's face. He returned to his work and did not supply an answer. One of the men looked anxiously at the other. He nodded, as if to signal him of something.

Within seconds, the men were on John. One held him down, beating him repeatedly until he felt his nose press against his cheekbone. The other dug into his suit's pocket to retrieve a long, strange, silver stick. He descended on Jon slowly, as if to savor the moment.

A sort of primal instinct overcame John along with his typical urges. He flung the man from his chest with ease and climbed to his feet. Blood poured from his open nose and down his bruised face. Just as he had the first night, he ran to the wall and painted the symbol from some forgotten section of his mind. However, this time when he placed his hand on the blood drawing, a bright light consumed the room, blowing the papers about the room like an industrial fan.

Dr. Boyle ran into the room at the sound of the commotion. When she found John bloody and alone, the same marking pained haphazardly on the wall, she stumbled into the hallway.

"I didn't –" John stuttered as she left, unable to finish the sentence logically.

_Oh, now you've done it._

Jimmy's voice, John's voice, had permanently etched itself in his head and his face, John's face, appeared regularly whenever he was able to catch a glimpse.

_You failed it. They know you're learning now._

"Who were they?" John asked out loud.

_You know I can't tell you that. If I tell you that, you might remember a few more things than just cars and kites. I can't have that._

Before John had the opportunity to beg for answers, Dr. Boyle and a few unusually buff orderlies burst into the room. One of them promptly injected a long needle into John's arm, sending him limp in his arms.

They contained John temporarily in a cell while they cleaned his room. The whereabouts of the police men were unknown. More alarming to the doctors was the force's little knowledge of the men, claiming them to be nonexistent.

And in three days, actual FBI officers would be assigned to the case.


	8. Chapter Six: Infirmary Cell

**Yadayadayada, I do not own Supernatural, yadayadayada, maybe Fanfiction will let me upload things again.**

**.o0o.**

John sat in the damp cell alone, his knees pressed up against his still bruised chest. His heart palpitated rapidly and his mind sped even faster. From his cell, he could see into the infirmary. An orderly would come and sit in the room from time to time and read or text to pass it, but typically he was alone. Occasionally Annabelle would come to treat one of his many wounds, but she never talked. She merely stared at the tile floor, avoiding eye contact.

But John could care less about his surroundings. What was going on in his mind was too much to handle. What had just happened wasn't physically possible. Nothing could explain the sudden disappearance of those men who seemed to know something about him. Not to mention the fact that he had had a man named Jimmy nagging at him from the back of his mind. Was he truly crazy? A long, uncontrollable hallucination seemed the only logical answer.

And yet it didn't explain what had happened to those men.

_Don't worry about it yet. You're not crazy and they shouldn't be a problem for a while, _replied Jimmy.

John chuckled to himself. The voice in his head was telling him he wasn't insane.

The door to the infirmary creaked open and a thick blonde head emerged into the room, catching the light.

"I heard you were in here." Reece slunk into the room, his hand held behind his back. His hair was clearly brushed more thoroughly that it had the first time John had seen him.

John just stared at the man. Suddenly, he had the strange feeling that he was cornered.

"I brought you something."

Reece held out John's wings and the central picture he had yet to finish, a softer more hopeful smile replacing his typically forceful grin.

John approached him slowly, unable to contain his desire for the items. For some reason, he found comfort in the both of them that was unlike the other pieces. He needed them back in his possession.

"Here, take them. I brought you some crayons, too. To help finish this one, you know."

John grabbed them from his hands, careful not to hurt them in any way.

"The next one you draw better be of me," Reece's chuckle didn't hide is threatening tone.

And Reece was gone.

John promptly unraveled the drawing. His mind was still moving too quickly to really look at the pink lines, but he clutched it to his chest. He took out one of the green crayons Reece had brought him and drew two green circles in the middle of the page. Why green? Why there? He had no clue.

But he knew it was right.

He had the urge to draw more, but he didn't have the materials. He merely sat in his cell cradling his works.


	9. Chapter Seven: Daniel Speicher

**I do not own Supernatural **

**.o0o.**

To Agent Daniel Speicher, this was the case of a lifetime. He had spent his first twenty years working for the FBI behind a rusting desk. Now, now he had made it to the big leagues. This one case was his shot at greatness. It was his shot at being remembered.

He had the news report of the man's first attack recorded and had even spent 60 dollars framing the DVD. Every night before he fell asleep next to his wife, he would gaze up at the ornate frame.

He remembered finding the first lead. After running videos of the man taken by his unfortunate victims, Daniel and his team were able to put a name to the terrible face. Jimmy Novak, a salesman from Illinois, was the man he was hunting. Novak had gone missing a few years ago and, according to some of his friends and neighbors, fit the religious base necessary to have committed his crimes.

The man's family, however, defended the criminal. The interrogation of his daughter, Claire, was the strangest Daniel had ever conducted. While she thoroughly believed her father was innocent, she seemed rather open to agree that it was very possible that he did commit the crime.

"It must look that way to you," was all that the girl said when asked if a photo of the man was indeed her father.

From there, the case nearly went cold. Jimmy Novak had seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. Daniel would sit up for hours at night, wondering exactly what he had gotten himself into. This man had killed hundreds of religious zealots without anyone else's aid, and he had done so without any recognizable weapons in an unimaginably brutal fashion. And then, just as Daniel had been assigned the case, he stopped. Jimmy Novak, a seemingly inhuman criminal, disappeared. Had he gone into hiding, or had he simply learned how to be more discrete? Or had he moved on to another country?

The one day, one of his men, a Wendell or a Walter or some other silly name like that, hurried into the room. A look of pure delight was plastered on his forgettable face.

"Sir, sir I think you'll want to see this!" He squealed, holding a report marked "urgent" in his trembling hands.

Daniel hurried to the man, afraid he might pass out from excitement if he postponed the reveal.

"A man fitting Novak's description washed up on a Muncipial river bank about three months ago. He's being held in a mental hospital only a few hours away. He has complete amnesia."

A mix of bliss and adrenalin pumped through Daniel like a drug. Had he found him? Was this all over? Could he finally walk into work and have people point at him and say "that's that guy that caught that serial killer"?

"Did you call the hospital? Tell them to hold him?" A powerful urgency dominated Daniel's typically put together voice.

"No, I figured you would want to."

The man was right.

Daniel hurried to the other side of the room, sliding into his familiar desk chair. He ripped his phone off the desk and jammed it into his ear, fumbling to dial the number as Wendell read it to him.

"Hello, this is the FBI. We have reason to believe one of your patients is a federal criminal."

This was what success felt like.


	10. Chapter Eight: Escape

**I do not own Supernatural or any of its brilliant characters despite the fact that I enjoy writing about them regularly.**

**.o0o.**

Four Hours Earlier

"It's time for group" Dr. Boyle seemed to materialize before the cell, her hair held together in a tight bun on top of her tense head. She spoke in her usual detached voice, but now a sort of concealed whimper snuck in. She was afraid of him.

John went with her willingly, leaving his wings behind. He did, however, fold his unfinished drawing and carefully slid it and a few of the more appealing crayons into the pocket of his uniform blue robe.

The two walked together down the halls in a way they hadn't before. Now, they moved more slowly, as if the next step could mean a sudden mental break. Orderlies dropped what they were doing to watch them pass, expecting a similar occurrence.

He was no longer the sane, innocent man Annabelle had described.

When they entered the familiar room, all went quiet. Every one of the other ten patients froze to watch him enter. The plump girl with the wandering eyes, Beth, let out an audible squeak, collapsing into her chair. Evan, the man who had previously been accepting of him, forced a nearby patient into the open chair next to him, avoiding John's eye contact.

The only person who didn't seem averse to John's presence was Reece. He motioned to the open seat beside him, which John reluctantly accepted.

Dr. Boyle sat down and raised her eyes to the group, scanning each of their faces.

"Would anyone like to start?" she said, looking directly at John.

Silence gripped the room. Everyone turned to John, expecting him to speak up. John looked down at the floor submissively and fingered the folded up drawing in his pocket.

"I guess I'll start," Reece said in a strong, calm voice. "Today I had a visitor."

Everyone smiled comfortingly except Dr. Boyle.

"There weren't any visitors today, Reece," she said blatantly.

"Yes there were," he asserted, maintaining his collected tone. "They came to my room and told me to do something."

"And what was that?" Dr. Boyle sighed.

"I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone until it has been done." He was menacing, staring down everyone who looked his way.

John was suddenly intrigued. Something about Reece's eerie tone raised more than the average alarms.

"Why is that?" Dr. Boyle didn't even bother to look up from her papers.

"It's what they asked of me."

For the first time, Reece went quiet out of his own free will. He held his hands in his lap defensively.

The group was released into the common room for leisure time. John fled to a table in the corner of the room, avoiding the other's watchful eyes. He pulled out the folded paper and the crayons and laid them out on the surface in front of him carefully.

Reece pulled a chair up to the table, causing it to shake and the crayons to roll to the floor. John moved to grab at them, but Reece raised an arm, preventing him from moving from his chair.

"I'll let you get them in a second," he said. "I have to tell you something."

John just looked back at Reece silently.

"We're leaving."

John froze. Part of him considered screaming to alert everyone of this heinous and terrifying suggestion, but a stronger, more curious part of him fought back.

Jimmy.

_Listen to this guy, _Jimmy whispered in the back of his mind. _He's acting unusual. _

John, unable to respond to Jimmy, just nodded.

"Wow, I thought I'd have to persuade you." Reece leaned down to retrieve the fallen crayons. "We have to leave at once. Follow me."

Reece stood casually, raking his blonde hair out of his eyes with his fingers. He strode to the door and stopped before a young orderly. The two chatted nonchalantly for a few moments, the orderly laughing repeatedly. Finally, Reece nodded for John to follow and disappeared out of the door.

John scrambled to his feet, jamming his items into his pockets. He tried, unsuccessfully, to mirror Reece's stride as he left the room.

Reece was waiting in the hallway, his hands in his pockets. The two ran together to the end of the hall, met by the familiar metal doors that imprisoned the hospital's patients. Reece pulled his hand from his pocket to reveal a set of keys.

Suddenly, a small gasp rang out in the hall like a siren. Beth was frozen behind them, hands held in front of her face in fear.

"Don't you say a word," Reece growled at the girl, shoving the keys into John's chest and starting towards her.

"Help," Beth whimpered, barely loud enough to be heard.

She turned towards the door where the rest of the patients and multiple orderlies were within reach. Reece dove between her and the door and thrust her out of the way.

"Help!" Beth murmured slightly louder than the last time, falling into the wall.

"Don't you dare say a word about this," Reece ordered, shoving the girl again.

"Help!" she yelled out once more, ignoring his threats and sending him into an apparent rage.

Reece grabbed her hair and shook it violently. Beth began to cry audibly, choking and gasping. Reece put one hand over the girl's mouth and another around her round neck. She thrashed and squirmed, throwing her balled fists into his chest hopelessly. He only strengthened his grasp around her neck, lowering her onto the floor.

John started towards the two, startled by what he was witnessing. He froze at a loud snap that burst through the hall. Beth crumpled to the floor, a blank expressionless look occupied her face.

_I take back what I said earlier. _Jimmy squawked.

"What have you done?" John heard himself say.

"Come, we're leaving," Reece left the woman on the floor and ran to John.

"No," John flinched, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

Reece's eyes narrowed and his face stiffened. He grabbed John's arm, ripped the keys from his hand and jammed them into the door.

"You're coming whether you like it or not."


	11. Chapter Nine: Rising Action

**I love every single person who has reviewed this fanfiction. You guys bring me so much happiness and initiative. Keep reviewing, it's so great. **

**I do not own Supernatural. **

**.o0o.**

Evan sat at his usual table, scanning the room. Everyone in this place was so interesting. His doctor always said how he was "stable enough to go home next week", but every week Evan planned and rehearsed a mental breakdown significant enough to make him stay without startling any orderlies. All he wanted was to live in a place with people like this.

But that John guy, he was different. Evan had watched so many people come through this place, he knew how they all acted. They were fidgety and very vocal about their problems, but John wasn't. He was quiet and reserved and obviously a little confused about his situation.

And when Reece began to act differently, that raised more than a few flags. Reece was the loudest, most obnoxious person Evan had ever met, and when he refused to voice his orders he knew something was wrong. Something was off.

Reece led John from the room. Reece _loved _to lead guys from the room, but John didn't seem like the type who would fall for him. John didn't seem that stupid.

Beth, a quiet, fidgety girl, left the room a little after they did. She would normally go back to her room during leisure time to hide from everybody else. If she could leave to go back to her room, why couldn't he leave to go check on John?

Evan reached the door just in time to hear the snap of the girl's neck and the clatter of keys jamming into the metal doors. He gasped, but not loud enough for the men outside to hear him. He watched silently as Reece ripped John out the door and the two fled down the steps and into the city streets.

"Evan?" an orderly asked, noticing his vacant expression. "Evan is everything alright?"

"They –" Evan started, unsure as to whether or not he should end the sentence. "They left."

The orderly's eyes grew substantially. She grasped at the radio on her waist and rushed out into the hallway.

Her deafening scream echoed through the hospital. People rushed to the hall to meet the same horror she had. Beth lay dead on the cold tile floor, the metal doors to the hospital still swaying with the wind.

**.o0o.**

Dr. Boyle sat in her office, twiddling her fingers unhappily. This wasn't the life she had imagined when she took this job. At first, it had been a dream. Talking to people about their problems and helping them live a happy existence; that had been what she had always wanted. But then the people got crueler and harder to deal with. The stories got more violent and harder to listen to. Her family didn't understand her sudden sadness and pushed her way. She was alone.

And when the phone rang, she just stared at it. She watched the red light blink on and off. Part of her wanted to ignore it, but she knew better.

"Hello, Dr. Boyle speaking," she mumbled mechanically.

The voice that met hers was elated, to say the least.

"Hello, this is the FBI. We have reason to believe one of your patients is a federal criminal."

Dr. Boyle barely changed her tone or posture.

"A lot of our patients come from a criminal background. My I ask who you are referring to, exactly?"

"Jimmy Novak. From the papers we have here, he is being held with severe amnesia and most likely would not know his name. Mr. Novak is a mass murderer. We're sending the local police to apprehend him immediately. We'd appreciate if you kept him contained until they arrive." The man on the other line spoke quickly and without breaks, as if he was afraid he wouldn't be able to speak in time to get his point across.

A beeping noise signified an incoming call. This one came from within the building.

"Hold on just one second, sir," she said to the man, "I have another call. In the mean time, I assure you that all of our patients are contained."

She pressed the button and sighed.

"Um, Dr. Boyle?" the shaky voice of a young orderly came onto the phone.

"Yes?"

"We have a, uh, situation."

Dr. Boyle closed her eyes, threw her head back, and leaned into her hair. Why was everything her problem?

"Uh, I think you better come down here and see for yourself," her voice was unnaturally terrified.

"What's wrong?" she said in her most caring voice, trying to channel her old self.

"Two, uh, two patients escaped. Another is –" the orderly choked down a sob. "Another was killed."

Dr. Boyle flinched. Nothing like this had ever happened under her control.

"Who was involved?" Her kind tone was gone.

"Uh, Beth Oliver was killed, and Reece Quinn and John Doe escaped."

Dr. Boyle's heart fell. She was going to have to ruin that poor man's day.

**.o0o.**

The two brothers sat together in the neon colored motel room just as they did after every hunt. One was disinfecting a thick cut on his forearm, received by the angry demon they had exorcised a few hours ago. The other downed a swig of whiskey and leaned back onto the headboard of his stiff, inexpensive bed.

"Turn on the TV, it's too depressing in here," he said, kicking off his shoes and taking another gulp.

"What do you want to watch? They only get six channels here and I don't think any of them are porn," the taller man laughed drearily.

"Common, Sammy. Maybe we can see some of that hot weather lady you like so much."

"You're sick, Dean," Sam said, turning on the TV anyways.

The two sat together, watching the news and various other random TV shows. Occasionally one of them would chuckle at a stupid joke, but other than that the room was unchanging.

"_Breaking News,_" The face of a newscaster appeared on the screen, interrupting the cheesy daytime show that had previously plagued the screen.

"_This is a public warning for all people residing in the Gottal County. A mass murderer known for his religion based killings is believed to be loose in the area."_

"People are sick," Dean interjected.

"You know we're being hunted on similar charges," Sam reasoned. "You shouldn't judge."

"_The killer, a Jimmy Novak of Illinois, was being held for quite some time until he escaped along with hostage Reece Quinn."_

Two photos appeared on the screen. One of a good looking blonde man with daunting eyes and a deep frown and the other was of a man with scruffy brown hair and deep, vacant blue eyes.

"Cas," Dean gasped. His flask fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Sam jumped to his feet and turned to Dean.

"Man, Castiel was dead. We saw him walk into a river for heaven's sake!" Sam stated.

"No," Dean was enraged at no one in particular, but Sam was the only one there, "Cas was rotting away in some cell somewhere all alone while we sat around! If we had just looked for him more –"

Dean was sitting up and hastily putting his shoes back on. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

"Dean, you can't think like that!" Sam bellowed. "If Cas was staying there without a fight, then how do we know he isn't Jimmy?"

"That doesn't matter," Dean stood and raced towards the door. "We're going to go find him."


	12. Chapter Ten: Flipped Switch

**Oh, my goodness reviews. You guys make me almost as happy as Misha Collins does. That's a lot, you guys.**

**I do not own Supernatural.**

**.o0o.**

Reece's fingernails dug into John's forearm. He dragged him into a nearby alley and threw him into the grimy stone wall. The man held his shaking hands in front of his face and breathed heavily. John didn't know what to do. The pair just stood in the muck, heart's racing through fear and adrenalin.

_Run, _Jimmy's voice urged. _Run for your life. _

But for once, John didn't listen to Jimmy. He stayed pressed against the stone wall, careful not to startle Reece. All he could hear was the thin snap of Beth's neck.

Would Reece do that to him if he didn't comply?

Reece turned to Jimmy, as if he knew his inner turmoil. No longer his collected self, a look of pure malice covered his face.

"You better be the trouble you're worth, you filthy _caduce angele_," Reece spat on the concrete.

_Did he just speak Latin? _Jimmy asked.

John didn't know any Latin, and he didn't think it mattered if he did. He was a captive. And he had brought this on himself.

A loud siren blared in the distance. Had the police already responded to the murder? John froze at the word. He had just been involved in a murder.

"Come with me, we've gotta get out of here," Reece said, driving his fingers back into John's wrist. John didn't move. He couldn't.

"I _said _come with me!" Reece growled, gripping him so hard that he drew blood.

"No." John insisted. He didn't know where this sudden courage came from.

It was soon struck down by the sudden yet powerful fist in his face. He was knocked to the ground, blood now flowing from somewhere in his mouth.

"I was told to get you and bring you to her, ok?" Reese snarled, "And when I do, I'll be rewarded."

"_Shit" _was all that Jimmy said.

"Now come with me."

**.o0o.**

Dean was speeding. And it wasn't his usual thirty-miles-per-hour-past-the-limit speeding.

Sam had closed his eyes seemed partially content with holding on to the seat desperately, although every once in a while Dean could hear him utter a prayer or a blasphemous phrase.

He was determined to reach Cas. The fact that something could go right in this flurry of misfortune was overpowering. He could save someone.

The Impala pulled up in front of the hospital. It was the only place Dean could think to go without any proper leads. Perhaps they could blend in with the local and federal officers and find out the more secret bits of information that the news hadn't been allowed to share.

"Are you completely insane?" Sam responded to Dean's plan. "You do remember that we're federal criminals too, right? If we walk in there someone is bound to notice us, and then we go down!"

"And what do you suggest we do, Sam? Sit here in the car and wait for Cas to get in the back seat?"

"I 'suggest' we take a step back and think for a few seconds!"

The two brothers fumed for a while, watching cops go in and out of the building like ants.

"We need to think like Cas," Dean interjected.

"And how do we do that?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted to the steering wheel. The sun was going down. Cas would be impossible to spot in the crowed nighttime streets.

"We should find a room," Sam said, thinking similarly, "We'll research tonight and find him tomorrow."

"Fine."

And reluctantly, Dean pulled away.

**.o0o.**

"Stay here until I get back, I need to make a call." Reece threw John onto the ground next to an overflowing dumpster. Reece looked down at him and frowned.

"Should I tie you up or something?" Reece asked almost kindly.

"No," he added, his hateful tone returned. In one swift motion, he brought his foot down onto John's extended ankle. Pain shot through the joint and into the rest of John's body causing his eyes to water.

As Reece walked away, John laid his head on the pavement passively. He pulled his drawing out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was comforting, but not enough to shield him from the pain that ripped him apart. With one of the pink crayons, he added a few more lines and curves.

The roar of a car engine approached. John looked up, watching it pass by. The passengers wouldn't notice him surrounded by all of the trash. They definitely wouldn't hear him over their blaring car radio.

They stopped about twenty feet from John, allowing him a good look at the make and model of the car. There was something familiar about it.

He had drawn it.

He furrowed his brows, confused. It didn't seem like a common vehicle. The radio was soon turned off and two men climbed out of the car.

"We should really swing for better hotels, Dean." One of the men said casually.

"Nah, this is how we've always lived."

The second man's voice triggered another one of John's attacks, but this one was different. Rather than a random loss of control, this was the opposite. Every part of his brain was thrown into overdrive in a wild frenzy.

And he remembered.

He remembered all of the churches he destroyed, all the men and women he had killed in the name of God. He remembered the tall man with the sideburns that could send any civil war general into fits of envy. He remembered pulling him out of Hell and leaving his soul to be torn and mutilated by Lucifer and Michael. He remembered releasing those memories onto him. Worst of all, he remembered Dean Winchester, the man he had personally raised from perdition, the man he had rebelled for. The man whose photo he held in his hand.

Castiel remembered.


	13. Chapter Eleven: Monsters

**Went through and actually edited the first twelve chapters. Yay. Also, I'd like to personally thank everyone who has reviewed. It means the world to me and I love all of you. I feel like I'm letting you guys down because I haven't updated in a little while. I know it sounds like I'm making it up, but I'm really allergic to grass and it annually hits me really hard.**

**.o0o.**

Castiel's first instinct was to call out to his friends. They would come to save him, and they would do so willingly. They saved people every day.

But he knew better.

He had attacked Sam. He had torn down the wall in Sam's mind unleashing a monster, and he had left Sam's soul behind, which created the situation where he needed the wall. He had assaulted the one thing the Winchesters truly cared about: their family. And he had done so in such a viscous, maniacal way that he would not be survived if Dean came over and killed him himself.

Is that what he wanted?

That one thought took control. Did Castiel want to die? For however brief a period, he had been an honorary Winchester. He had loved them more than his real brothers. He had lived with them, cared for them, and rebelled on their command. But then, he became a monster.

And monsters deserved to die.

**.o0o.**

Reece held the stolen credit card in his jittery hand. He had taken it that morning from a rather dense orderly. By the time she realized it was gone, he'd be miles away. He didn't even begin to worry that she'd realize it was him.

The woman at the check in desk was flirting with him, but he ignored her. Throughout his lifetime, he had been obsessed with insignificant actions like that. To have the attention of another person was more important than anything. When he couldn't get it naturally, he would be forced to fight for it. On his sixteenth birthday, he had attempted to impress a girl by scaring her so-called "buff" boyfriend. The boy was nearly killed, and his parents had Reece committed. He was quickly thrown into a place with barely any attention, a place where he was forced to sit hours alone with his darkening thoughts.

After nearly seven years of hopping from institution to institution, something finally went right. A pleasant looking woman with dark hair appeared to him in a dream. She told him that he was chosen for an important and honorable mission: he was to kidnap the angel Castiel. If he succeeded, his fame would be record breaking. Everyone in the world would grovel at his feet, hoping for him to look at them as he had hoped for years.

And then, a month later, Castiel had arrived. Reece began his work, planning everything to the tee. Then, when the time was right, he set things in motion.

And so far everything was going great. But his hands still shook with a furry and his mind was moving at the speed of sound.

He just wanted to be famous.

When he had checked in, he returned to find Castiel where he had left him, broken and surrounded by trash. Something was different, though. His big blue eyes weren't as vacant or innocent.

"What happened?" Reece demanded.

But Castiel didn't respond. He merely looked up at him fearfully. Reece decided to let it go.

"Get up," he ordered, grabbing on to Castiel's shoulder and heaved him into the air. Reece then proceeded to drag him to their room, leaving his slippers and a good amount of flesh from his heels by the ground.

The two disappeared into one of the many rooms. Reece threw Castiel into the windowless bathroom and shut the door. He moved slowly and sat at the end of the frumpy bed.

All he had to do now was wait.


	14. Chapter Twelve: The Filbert Motel

**Thank you all for enjoying this. I cannot express through English words how much I love every one of you. Every person who has made it this far, even if you haven't reviewed, has made me extraordinarily happy. It's amazing that people enjoy what I write. **

**.o0o.**

Dean couldn't sleep. He was so close to a friend he had thought he had lost. He had to find him.

He waited until five to wake Sam up. He figured that'd give them enough time to drive into town and get to the asylum before the actual police did. They would ask a few questions and get out before anybody had time to remember their faces.

"Get up!" he said, shaking the part of Sam's leg that hung off the end of the bed.

Within minutes he had his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala and was speeding towards town. Sam was still half asleep, his tie lopsided and his hair completely out of control. Dean, on the other hand, had prepared himself as if his life depended on it.

Because Cas's did.

They approached the building at unreasonable speed, nearly taking out a passerby as they pulled into an open parking space.

"Dean, I think you need to calm down," Sam suggested carefully as his brother slammed the car door shut with a crack.

"Calm down?" Dean said with a squeak, "Our friend is out there. I think you need to get a little more stressed!"

"I think it's a bit hard for me to get that worried about someone who released Lucifer on me, Dean," Sam muttered coolly.

Dean froze. He hadn't stopped to consider what Cas had done. Cas had betrayed them, lied to them, hurt them, even. He was the cause of a majority of the problems that plagued them every minute. But Dean still couldn't think of the way Cas looked as the Leviathans took over, as they clawed through him and drove him into that river. He couldn't forget those words.

"_I'm sorry, Dean."_

"No." Dean said simply, "We have to save him. He's our family. Family makes mistakes. How many times have we taken people down trying to save each other?"

Sam looked at the ground processing the thought. The first memory that came to mind, the time he had thought he had killed Bobby during Gabriel's nightmare, was all he needed. He knew Dean was right.

The two walked into the building as casually as they could, still managing to gain the attention of everyone who passed.

"Can I help you two?" a woman with a tight bun barked. She was clearly in charge by the way she held herself.

"Uh, yeah," stuttered Dean, showing her one of his many false FBI badges, "The guy we sent over yesterday to ask you about Mr. Novak's time here completely lost the information. Idiot. So, uh, would you mind if we asked you some questions again?"

The woman sighed and crossed her arms in front of her chest, "Yes."

"Good, good," Sam interjected, noticing the woman's unhappy persona, "Uh, can you describe to us how he came to be here? Please?"

"Yeah, sure" she mumbled something contradictory, but it was completely inaudible.

"Novak was sent to us from a facility for violent patients after he showed signs of better behavior. Before that, he was found by a river covered in black goo or something strange like that. Ask that doctor, if you want to know more about that. While he was here, he never talked about hurting anyone, let alone escaping. He did attack himself one time, drew all over the wall with his own blood. But never anyone else."

Dean hesitated. Drew on the wall with his blood? Had Cas been attacked? Had he feared it?

"Did any men, or women for that matter, ever come to see him?"

"Yes," she grumbled, "Two men came pretending to be FBI. They disappeared and left Novak pretty hurt. That just happened yesterday. I honestly don't know anything else."

Dean swallowed heavily. Yesterday. Had they come to finish the job? Was that where Cas was?

"Thank you for your help," Sam smiled, noticing Dean's silence.

The woman turned and barreled down the hallway. Another emerged from a room as she passed, smiling at their presence.

"Are you here to ask about Jimmy Novak?" she cooed, running to meet them before they left.

"Yes," Sam answered.

"Can I tell you something?"she asked quietly.

"What is it?" Dean said, taking a single step towards her.

"The man who, uh, Jimmy kidnapped, Reece. He escaped a few months ago. We found him in a motel outside of town. He said something about meeting 'her' there. The last men who came by didn't think it was important, considering they think Jimmy kidnapped him."

"And you don't?" Sam inquired.

"No. I know they say Jimmy killed all those people, but the man I talked to wasn't insane," she said unblinking.

"And uh, where was this motel?" Dean requested, slightly taken aback by her comment.

"There's only really one outside town. It's the Filbert motel. You can't miss it."

Dean shot a look at Sam, who already seemed completely surprised.

They were staying at the Filbert Motel.

"Thank you so much, ah—"

"Annabelle Conan."


	15. Chapter Thirteen: Motive

**So fanfiction hasn't shown me a single hit/visitor for the past three days, but people are reviewing/adding me to lists and stuff, so I assume you guys didn't just stop reading altogether. Keep reviewing, because it's apparently the only way for me to know anybody is out there. (Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural)**

**.o0o.**

Castiel sat on the grimy bathroom floor and hugged his knee to his chest; letting his broken leg lay outstretched on the cold tile floor. This was it. He was awaiting his execution in a motel bathroom. A torture and execution was most likely, considering the fact that Reece hadn't just killed him forthright.

He wondered how long he'd have to wait. Clearly this "she" had been fine with letting him wait in the institution.

A small knock could be heard outside. Someone was here. He could hear Reece scramble to open the door. A small part of him hoped it was Sam and Dean coming to rescue him, for he knew they were most likely on the other side of the thin wall.

But it wasn't.

"Is he in the bathroom?" a woman screeched, he voice unrecognizable to Castiel. She was either someone he hadn't met before or she had possessed a new body.

"Y-yes," Reece stuttered back, "will I be famous now?"

"It depends on the information he has, honey," she said coldly, "now can you please explain to me why there was an Impala parked outside last night?"

Her voice had grown more rigid, almost afraid. She must have faced the Winchesters before, or at least have had heard of them. The prior was most likely, considering most beings, even he at one point, underestimated their power.

"I-I don't know," he started, "is that a bad thing?"

"So they haven't interacted with you at all?" Her voice seemed a bit calmer, "I guess that's a good sign."

A period of near silence passed, the occasional ruffling being the only audible noise.

"Let's get this over with."

The door to the bathroom swung open to expose a short girl with equally short curly brown hair that clung to the edges of her square face. Her bronze eyes caught the crumpled man and widened significantly.

"What'd you do? Jam him in a suitcase?" she chuckled, gliding towards him. She crouched on the linoleum beside him and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, bringing it to her own.

"Tastes like mortal, Castiel," she rose to her feet, never breaking eye contact. She wiped the blood on her jeans and pulled out a thick, jagged knife from her tan leather jacket.

"It would please me substantially if you would get to your point," Castiel murmured to the knife.

"Oh, come on!" a crooked smile consumed her face, "Don't you want to postpone the moment so your knights in shining Chevy can come and save you? Aren't you the least bit curious who I am?"

Castiel just continued to look directly at the sharpened dagger.

"Oh, so that's it? The brooding angel did a bad thing and doesn't want to live in this world anymore? Well guess what, I don't want to kill you, Castiel. I just want you to enlighten me on a few things. Then I'll send you on your merry way so you can experience life on the Winchester's bad side."

Castiel looked up at her content expression. She knew she had gotten to him.

"Now, all you have to do is tell me one thing," she cocked her head to the side and descended to Castiel's level, putting her face only a few inches from his. "How did you get Sam out of the pit?"


	16. Chapter Fourteen: Search

**I still can't see hits and stuff, and it makes me really sad. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and added me to lists and stuff. It reminds me that everyone doesn't hate me. (Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural).**

**.o0o.**

The brothers pulled into the motel lot, barely able to stop the vehicle before it slammed into the awning surrounding the motel. Tearing the key from the ignition, Dean turned towards Sam.

"You check one end, I'll check the other. We'll meet in the middle. If you find anything, scream, okay?" and Dean was out of the car and barreling towards the motel. Sam sat for a moment, watching him go. He had never seen Dean this determined to save someone.

He was normally dead.

Sam jogged towards the front door, pocketing his badge. He knocked twice and took a step back. What would he say? He didn't want to cause a panic and risk creating a crowd for Castiel to escape in.

The first door opened to reveal a flustered girl in a tan leather jacket.

"Yes?" she asked cluelessly, brushing her curly brown hair out of her face as she sized Sam up.

"Uh, the motel has received a few complaints regarding the new heating units in this room. Would it be too much trouble if I came in for a few minutes and checked it out?"

The woman continued to smile. "Sure, I guess."

Sam walked in slowly, taking in every aspect of the room. It was almost identical to his and Dean's, except this one only had one king sized bed and a lot less mess. He moved to crouch in front of the small heater, attempting to play the role he had created.

"Don't you need tools or something?" the woman's voice broke. She was afraid.

Sam turned around, not sure how to respond. He didn't have to, though, for his eyes caught sight of a single blue monogrammed slipper labeled "Herman Psychiatric Hospital" peeking out from under the bed.

The lamp hit him in the face before he had the chance to open his mouth.

**.o0o.**

Dean reached the midway point completely unsuccessful. He waited a moment for Sam to arrive. Typical Sammy, he was probably chatting up one of the guests about the meaning of life or something silly like that.

He decided it was best to search the next room while he waited. Like all the others, they appeared completely innocent. Just another low life traveler just like him. He waited a few more minutes and then checked another room. Innocent. And another. Innocent.

Panic gripped him. Where was Sam? Could it be possible that they had just narrowly missed each other repetitively? Had he lost Sam? He ran from room to room, now asking a new set of questions. No one had seen his brother.

Finally, he reached the last door; his last hope.

"Hello," he panted, "Have you seen a man this tall with longish brown hair?"

"Oh, yeah, the mechanic guy. He stopped by a few minutes ago to talk about my heater. He seemed kind of strange, though, he didn't even have any equipment. Is something wrong?" she blinked innocently.

"Ah, no, sorry for bothering you," he said, ducking out of the room.

He walked to the car hastily, his heart beating out of his chest. He lost Sam, too.

**.o0o.**

Castiel refused to answer her, mainly out of principle. He had saved Sam out of sheer power alone. There was no way for this woman to achieve that strength id she did not already possess it.

She continued to look down at him, tightening her grip on the knife.

"Are you going to answer?" she growled. Castiel merely blinked.

Angrily, she readied her arm, preparing to stab.

But there was a knock at the door.

"Who could t-t-that be?" Reece sounded utterly terrified.

"You really don't know?" she snarled, placing the knife on the counter. "I'll hold them off, you just wait in here with him."

The woman slammed the door.

Castiel tried his hardest to suppress any sort of excitement. It was only what the human parts of his mind, what Jimmy wanted: self preservation. That, and if this mystery woman truly meant to set him free they'd only be getting themselves in unnecessary trouble.

He could hear her and a man, most likely Sam, talking. Sam was clearly just trying to scope the place out rather than launch an attack. Castiel closed his eyes and prayed that Sam wouldn't notice anything suspicious.

But the smack of metal on flesh suggested otherwise.

"Help me, quick, before the other one shows up!" she shouted to Reece, who stumbled submissively into the room. They returned almost immediately with Sam's limp yet breathing body. With a single heave, the two launched the looming mass into the rusting tub.

"I guess we have a bit more leverage now," she said, never taking her eyes off Sam.

It was clear she had gone off script.


	17. Chapter Fifteen: The Lamp

**So yeah… I was quite sick and then the writers of Supernatural actually came up with a satisfying episode, so I really haven't had initiative to finish this thing. I really don't want another forever in progress fic and I'm not letting myself actually write the one I'm currently plotlining until this one's over, so I'm just going to finish this one the way I had it plot lined. Review as if the show hadn't done this better :(**

**.o0o.**

Light shone through Sam's hazy eyelids as the spinning room came into focus. His first thought was to roll over and go back to sleep. He grabbed where the typical motel bed sheets would have settled after a restless night, but his hand just grabbed the buckle of his pants.

He wasn't in his room.

The memory of the attack shot into him mind, startling him from his haze. That woman had gotten the better of him, a feat unique to only a few individuals.

"Hey, Sam," Lucifer's far too familiar voice beckoned him from what little dreamland he had left, "Sam, wake up, you're asleep in a bath tub, Sam."

Lucifer's figure appeared over him, blocking his view of the moldy, water stained ceiling. He placed his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side, as if to assess the situation.

"Buddy, I am surprised you even fit in there, especially with that bump you've got. It's borderline Tom and Jerry, man."

Sam went to sit up, but the room just spun as he slumped farther into the tub.

"Whoa there," another voice appeared, grabbing onto Sam's forearm. Sam turned to meet the voice, only to see two large blue eyes staring back at him.

Castiel, beaten and broken, was kneeling next to him.

"Sam, do not move. I believe you are suffering from a concussion," Castiel said in his typical formal tone.

"Well this is a mighty turn of events," Lucifer chuckled, squatting next to him, "Little Cas actually cares about what's going on in that big ol' noggin of yours."

Sam felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness. He almost welcomed it.

"Sam, try to stay awake. If you become unconscious again you might not wake up."

Cas seemed honestly worried.

"Hey, look!" A third voice, a woman's, interjected, "The man of the hour is finally awake. We were just talking about you before big brother showed up. Don't worry, I sent him away. We can talk now."

The woman descended on Sam, shoving Castiel out of the way and into the tiled wall with a smack. She watched Sam intently, never breaking eye contact.

"Maybe you know," she said, "How'd you get out of the cage?"  
>Sam shook his head. His mind was too jumbled too really process the thought, but deep down he knew he didn't know the real answer. That had been Cas's doing, not his.<p>

"AHHH!" the woman screamed, leaping to her feet. In one swift motion, she sent her foot into Castiel's unsuspecting stomach. "I have been waiting and watching for over a year in this shithole of a world and nobody will answer me!"

The woman paced for a few seconds, still obviously fuming.

"How about this," she said, her voice more calm and collected, "You tell me, or I go kill Dean."

She turned and looked down at Castiel, a fire in her eye.

Sam looked over at Castiel. This woman had been able to attack him, and he didn't want to take any chances with Dean especially in the condition he was in.

"Oh no!" Lucifer said sarcastically, "Some mystery chick wants to kill big bro! You gonna take that, Sammy?"

Sam knew he had to.

"Tell her, Cas," he heard himself say. His voice sounded muffled, even in his mind. It sounded weak.

"See, Castiel. Even hero boy over here knows it's the best choice." The woman smiled bitterly.

But Castiel just stared back at the woman, dumbfounded.

"I don't have anything to tell you."

**.o0o.**

Dean was hyperventilating. He had locked himself in the car to calm down, but it hadn't helped. He had lost them both. They could both be dead or dying. Lost or tortured.

What had he missed? Whatever it was, Sam had seen it. Dean knew he was better at noticing little things, so how had he managed to miss it? Perhaps the person had covered it up after Sam had noticed. Now there'd be no way of finding him.

He went to ask the woman at the check in desk if she had seen Cas or the man he had been with on the news, but the desk was vacant. He waited for a few minutes, he even yelled a bit, but she didn't seem to be anywhere.

Dean jogged to his room, his mind in a sort of frenzy. All the rooms had been furnished exactly the same way. Maybe, just maybe, he could remember one thing that had set one room apart from the others. At least that'd be a place to start looking.

At first, nothing rang any of the usual bells. Some of the rooms had had made beds, some of them hadn't. Some had had the closet door open, some hadn't. He reached out to turn on the lamp so that he could see better.

And then it hit him. The last room hadn't had a lamp.

It was a stupid clue. It was natural for one room to lack a lamp. But a part of his mind, the part that needed his brother and his friend more than anything in the entire world, forced him to follow the only possible lead.


	18. Chapter Sixteen: Old Friends

**Brontë is bad at updating even though she's had this little sliver written for 4 days. She also enjoys talking in the third person. She also writes weird endings. If you want to know what led me to make "the woman" who I made her, stick around. I think the next chapter will be the last (don't you dare quote me on that). **

**I don't own Supernatural.**

**.o0o.**

Dean knocked once on the hollow motel door, his balled fist shaking uncontrollably. He had never felt so terrified before in his life. Every living person he cared about was missing at the same time.

He was completely alone.

When no one came to the door, he knocked again. There was still no answer, so he brought his fists down with a fury until they were bloody and swollen. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a ruffling curtain. Someone was inside, they just didn't want to answer the door.

That was all he needed. He felt his boot make contact with the door, his mind in a dream-like haze. Adrenalin took full control of his actions.

The door swung open, smashing into the wall with a crack. As he barreled into the room, the blonde man from the news flew back into the corner, shielding his face as if Dean were about to explode.

"Where are they?" Dean bellowed. The man just shook in the corner, whimpering some sort of incoherent jabber.

He was clearly just a pawn to someone stronger, someone greater. The woman who had answered the door earlier, she had been much more collected. He hadn't recognized her, so she could be anyone. Cas had returned, so Crowley and his demons would have fled the country the second they caught wind. Leviathans never would have enlisted a human like the one cowering in the corner, so it couldn't be them, either. No, this was an old school kidnapping.

But who could have been behind it?

Dean really didn't have time to care. The horrified man raised his hand for a second, pointing to the bathroom door. Within milliseconds, his boot made contact with another false-wood door.

The musky smell that clouded his room's bathroom hit him full force, but he barely noticed it. There was blood on the floor, a lot of it. His eyes flew to Sam, propped up in the rusty tub. His face was severely swollen, but the rest of his body remained unharmed. Cas, on the other hand, sat sprawled on the ground next to him. His blue robe was torn and stained, a mangled leg protruding from it. Cas looked destroyed.

The look in Cas's large blue eyes, however, was the most startling feature of the relatively small room. They were hollow and lachrymose, a tear drying along his cheekbone. A single spark remained in the cerulean spheres, and it upset Dean.

It was fear.

"Look who finally showed up," a woman yielding a rather large, jagged, bloody knife appeared beside him, slamming the door. "Fashionably late, I see."

At record speed, Dean produced a similarly terrifying weapon from his jacket.

"We're leaving," he growled, never breaking eye contact with the mysterious woman.

"I don't think so, sweetie," she cooed menacingly. "Although, if no one answers my one simple question, I'll let you go in a body bag."

"And what is that?" Dean humored her, continuing their suspenseful stare down. With every second she chatted on, he pivoted his way between her and his family. He was here for a reason.

"How little Sammy got out of Hell?" she chuckled, nodding to Sam.

"And why does that matter to you?" Dean was inches from his goal.

"It's why I'm here. Unlike you three, most people need a purpose before they're resurrected. He brought me back before the battle. Just in case, you know? He knew I was the only one he could truly trust, the only one who wouldn't take advantage of his absence," a sense of superiority poisoned her voice.

"Who the Hell are you?" Dean added the final question, building up to his final foolproof attack.

"Ah, Dean, I'm hurt. We were like family once."

The realization hit him harder than any blow. He knew her.

"Ruby?" the name threw Dean off. How was this even possible? He felt himself dig her knife into her stomach as if it had been yesterday. She was dead.

And yet she was standing before him.


	19. Chapter Seventeen: Mortal

**Here's where I'm going to push my next fic as this one dies out. It's a crossover, but I've honestly never been more excited by anything in my entire life. If you've read this far into this borderline terrible one, I truly hope you care enough to just give my next one a chance when it's posted. It would mean the world.**

**I do not own Supernatural.**

**.o0o.**

Sam was still pretty out of it, but that one name tore him out of the swirling chaos that was his concussed mind.

"Ruby?" Dean said. Dean? When did he get here? Sam perked up, the room still spinning around him.

"Oh, man, I did not see that twist coming!" Lucifer giggled, perched on the edge of the rusted tub. He remained the one perfectly clear image in a room of fog.

Sam tried to make sense of the room. He could still make out Cas, laying misshapen and terrified only a few inches away. A man that he could only assume was Dean stood facing away from him. The rest of the room was too blurred to define.

"Hey, buddy, you don't look too hot," Lucifer said, leaning over him. Sam made a halfhearted attempt to swat him away.

"That's right, Dean," a woman's voice responded from the mist. It was the woman who had hit him, the woman who had just moments ago threatened to kill Dean for information. _That_ was Ruby?

"How is that even possible?" Dean demanded clearly upset. Sam could tell he had been planning something before this realization.

"Like I said, Dean, he brought me back in case anyone ever got strong enough to take him down. I was the only one he trusted," Ruby stated.

"Who?"

"Are you really that dense?," she spat, "Lucifer, that's who!"

"Me?" Lucifer interjected, sounding honestly surprised. He leapt from the tub and strode into the haze. He stood in front of Ruby for a few seconds rubbing is chin thoughtfully, still clear no matter how far away he traveled.

"Lucifer is in the pit, and you can't get him out!" Dean yelled, causing Lucifer to jump.

"So was Sam!" Ruby responded louder than Dean, "And Castiel got him out!"

There was a brief and awkward silence as Dean processed the thought. He was losing focus, Sam could tell. Ruby would get the upper hand, and she would take that chance. She had already expressed her willingness to kill Dean. Taking advantage of Dean's momentary weakness, she flexed her fingers around the hilt of her knife and took stance.

"Dean," Sam tried to whimper, but he knew the sound wasn't audible.

But just then, Sam saw something move. Cas turned to him and looked him straight in the eyes. That one look - no matter how short or silent - was all that he needed. Castiel looked more human than he ever had before. He looked broken and sad, remorseful and scared. Most of all, he looked determined.

Sam knew what he was about to do.

**.o0o.**

Cas, unable to stand on his own, grabbed a hold of the nearby counter and thrust himself at Ruby with all of the force his upper body could produce. He wasn't going to let her kill Dean. Not because of him.

He made contact with her immediately. The two of them crashed into the moldy tile wall with a loud smack. Pain surged through Castiel's every core, but he couldn't stop. He brought his fist down onto Ruby's face with all of the force his broken body could muster, completely uninterested in the potential harm he could be inflicting on the woman she was wearing.

He was so caught up in the beating that he barely felt the metal pierce his stomach; he barely felt it slide in among the many wounds that already littered his body. Within seconds, he was on his back, clutching his first truly mortal wound. Staring up at the damp ceiling, he heard the sound of the knife killing Ruby for the second time. She was gone. His attack had had purpose.

Castiel closed his eyes.


	20. Epilogue: I'm Sorry

**This is the final chapter, I swear. It's funny because I only had 8 plotlined and now I'm finishing with 20. It's cool, though, because I had 17 "chapters". I don't know… I hope at least some of you enjoyed it. **

**.o0o.**

Dean pulled into the hospital parking lot at full speed. Hell, if he wrecked he'd be in the best possible place.

Cas was totally unconscious and Sam was swaying like a ragdoll with every turn the car took. There was blood everywhere, most of it Cas's. Dean had never seen so much blood from one man except—

Dean pushed away the thought, parking the car in the ambulance lane despite a screaming EMT.

"You can't park there, sir!" he yelled as Dean opened the door and ran to the other side of the car.

"I'll move once you get my brothers out of the car and into the hospital, ok?" Dean bellowed, ripping open the door. Sam was just barely able to stumble out on his own, landing on his knees on the sidewalk. The angry EMT came to help him, but froze when he saw the mess inside the vehicle.

"Sweet Jesus," he gasped, motioning for his nearby colleagues to come help. Together, they got Cas on a stretcher and wheeled him into the building. Dean followed close behind, holding Sam up as he dragged him into the building. Cas quickly disappeared behind a corner.

Was this the last time he'd see him?

Sam was also wheeled away by nurses and orderlies, leaving Dean alone and covered in blood.

His entire life was in someone else's hands.

**.o0o.**

"Um, Dr. Lafleur, I think you should see this," a quiet orderly stood at the door of the department head's office, a clip board in her hands trembling.

"What is it?" Dr. Claudia Lafleur responded, looking up for just a second.

"You know that man who came in a few months ago? The man from the river who was covered in, uh, stuff?" The girl asked, perking up with every word.

"Yes," she stated intrigued.

"Well, I'm pretty sure he and a few family members showed up in the Emergency Room a few hours ago. They didn't recognize him, but I did and I, uh, knew you'd be interested."

The girl thought correct, for Claudia was out the door in seconds, snatching the clipboard from the orderly's hands as she went. The group was in a far wing of the hospital for patients with brain damage. It was the youngest brother, Sam, who had landed them that location. He had suffered massive brain damage and had lost his memory from the past few months. The man's other brother, Dean, was completely fine and had actually refused any sort of medical treatment.

Then there was the man. The only name Dean had given for him was "Cas". He had similar scars as the man who had stood over her months before, but this time he had been brought in in a horrendous condition. He had a destroyed leg and hundreds of other bruises. The worst wound, however, was a large stab wound in his abdomen which had torn apart quite a few internal organs.

But when Dr. Lafleur stopped outside their hospital door and looked in on the family, a soft smile consumed her face. They were all awake. A feeling of intense happiness flooded through her every core. These were the moments she was a doctor for.

"Come on, Cas, we forgive you," the older brother, Dean, said.

"How could you, Dean?" The man said from his cot, "I attacked Sam!"

The tallest brother, Sam, sat up on his cot.

"I, uh, don't remember. I forgive you." Sam looked over at him with a goofy smile.

"That doesn't change anything," Cas said, "I'll leave the second I can."

Dean stood and walked towards him angrily, "No you won't. We're not going to lose you twice. You're family. We've all made mistakes, and most of them had people caught in the crosshairs. That doesn't mean we can desert each other."

Cas looked down at his feet and sighed. Dean placed his hand on his shoulder.

"I'm still so sorry."


End file.
